


And Sleep.

by Littleshebear



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Developing Romance, F/M, Fluff, Love Confessions, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littleshebear/pseuds/Littleshebear
Summary: Suraya can't sleep so Zavala helps her out with a soothing poetry recital.





	And Sleep.

_01:32_

Suraya sighs deeply. She could have sworn the clock said  _01:30_  two hours ago. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over her chest. She can’t sleep. She just can’t sleep. The bed is too comfortable, she’s used to a mat and a sleeping bag. There’s too much noise. She’s used to the crying of owls, the babble of a stream. Not merchants taking late night deliveries or drunks stumbling back to their homes after one to many at the Blustery Brew.

She glances across at Louis on his perch. He’s standing on one leg, his head tucked under his wing. He obviously doesn’t seem to mind the noise. She snorts in disgust at how easily rest came to the stupid bird and turns onto her side. Maybe that will help. It doesn’t. She tries turning the pillow over to the cold side. That doesn’t help either. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, only to find herself listening to an argument that floats up from the street below. A woman is arguing with a man. The woman thinks the man was ignoring her in favour of another, the man thinks she’s jealous and over-reacting, they’re both intoxicated. Suraya thinks they deserve each other.

She throws off the covers with a growl and feels out for her trousers and boots. If she can’t sleep, she may as well go for a walk in this City. This City that is noisy, smelly and oddly lonely considering how many people are packed behind its walls. She hears Louis stir, adjusting his stance and shaking out his feathers.

“Come on, we’re taking a walk,” she tells him, as she dresses. She just puts on her poncho over her night shirt, no one will know. She pulls on a gauntlet and coaxes the falcon onto her wrist.

As they wend their way through the City, they get more than the odd puzzled look from the the bystanders who are still out on the streets at this time of night. Suraya simply stares them down. The ones who don’t move on are met with, “What, you don’t take  _your_  falcon for walks late at night? What’s wrong with you?”

Even as she walks, telling herself that she’s just going for an aimless wander, taking in the Light of the Traveler (it is beautiful at night, she must admit), she’s really following a set path. If people thought it was strange to see her walking the streets with a bird of prey on her arm, who knows what they’d think, seeing her enter one of the City’s more exclusive apartment buildings. It’s where the City’s great and the good live (Suraya opted for an apartment near the bazaar, considering herself neither great nor good). It’s the abode of consensus members, faction movers and shakers, militia officers. And the Vanguard Commander.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that her feet took her Zavala’s door but she admonishes herself. _When did you get this needy, Suraya?_ She takes a deep breath and rings the bell, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

A few agonising moments pass before the door opens and he’s there, wearing a dressing gown, his sensitive Awoken eyes blinking furiously in the hallway’s light.

“Good morning,” he says in a slightly puzzled tone.

Suraya opens her mouth to speak, then casts her gaze to the floor, ashamed. She woke him. Of course she did, he’s the early to bed, early to rise sort. She looks back up at him.

“It’s late.”

He pauses, his blinking becoming less frenetic now his eyes are adjusting to the light. “Is that an apology, or just a statement of fact?”

She glances to the side, wondering what the best answer would be. “Both?” She holds her arm up to him by way of explanation. “Louis couldn’t sleep.”

Zavala exhales slowly and Suraya discerns amusement in his expression. There’s no smile to speak of but there’s something in his demeanour. A crinkle at the edge of his eyes, a twitch of one eyebrow. She’s learning his tells and the realisation is both satisfying and terrifying to her.

“I see,” he says calmly, “Would Louis like some company by any chance?”

Suraya nods mutely, intensely grateful that he has gone along with her ridiculously transparent ruse. He nods towards his quarters, motioning for her to come in.

“If he can manage it, Louis can sleep on a chair in the kitchen, if he likes.” Suraya nods, and deposits a tired Louis on the back of a kitchen stool.

“He…” She begins nervously, “He might poop on the floor.”

“It’ll clean,” he assures her. “But enough about Louis. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, removing the heavy leather gauntlet now that Louis is safely deposited on his makeshift perch. He’s already fluffing his feathers, getting ready to sleep again. After Louis is settled, she lets her shoulders sag and bows her head. She somehow feels like it’s acceptable to abandon the pretence now his door is closed to the outside world. It’s just them.

“I’m really tired.” She leans her forehead against him, pressing it into the hollow of his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, cradling the back of her head in his hand.

“Nothing,” she sighs, “I don’t know.”

She feels both his hands travel up to either side of her head, tipping her up to face him. He takes a moment to push her hood back then presses his lips to her brow before working his way down her face, peppering light kisses along the pattern of her circular facial tattoo. He finally alights on her lips. It’s gentle and maddeningly chaste, but Suraya has to admit, she’s too tired for anything else. She tips her head back and giggles softly when he follows that up with feather light kisses on her closed eyelids and finally, the tip of her nose.

“What’s wrong?” He repeats. His voice isn’t much more than a whisper but it’s insistent.

“I know you love it here and I know you’re proud of it,” she begins, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek against his chest, “but it’s so loud.”

“Is it quieter here?” He murmurs.

“Can I have time to find out?”

“Come on.” His voice is indulgent as he breaks away from their embrace and leads her to his bedroom by the hand. Suraya feels some apprehension. She hasn’t seen the inside of his bedroom that often, they don’t often make it that far and the few times they have, she doesn’t tend to stay the night.

When they reach the bedroom Zavala pulls back the bed-covers and shrugs out of his dressing gown. Suraya sighs deeply as she drinks in the sight of him in nothing but a pair of loose shorts. She’s tired, she’s definitely too tired right now but she makes a mental to-do list for the morning. She follows suit and kicks off her boots, then shimmies out of her trousers and throws her poncho over her head.

Zavala chuckles softly as she climbs into bed beside him. “Did you trek across town in your pyjamas?”

“I didn’t see the point in getting dressed,” she replies. She wriggles close to him, hooking one leg between his and nuzzling into his chest.

Zavala rests his head on the crook of his arm and smiles down at her. “What do you need?”

“Just talk to me,” she replies, settling against him.

“What about?”

“Anything. Tell me about your day.”

“You do  _not_  want to hear about my day.”

“Try me.”

“You really want to hear about the Consensus meeting called to discuss the Zone 4.3 reconstruction over-spend?”

“Well.” Suraya hedges. “It might help me sleep.”

“It probably would,” Zavala laughs softly. “Close your eyes.” He strokes one index finger lightly down her face and up again. “Go to sleep.”

“Because it’s  _that_  easy,” she mocks, even as the sound of his voice and his closeness relaxes her.

“Shhh,” he lets his hand glide up her face and talks to her, every so softly. “Those who don’t feel this love pulling them like a river, those who don’t drink dawn like a cup of spring water, or take in sunset like supper, those who don’t want to change,” he pauses, trailing his fingertips through her hair and along her scalp, “let them sleep.”

Suraya sighs deeply, the timbre of his speech soothing her right down to her bones. “I feel like I should be staying awake for this.”

He drops a kiss on her brow and continues, “This Love is beyond the study of theology, that old trickery and hypocrisy. If you want to improve your mind that way, sleep on.”

She can feel herself fading, she wants to open her eyes and look up him but finds it too much effort. “Are you saying you love me?” she mumbles against his chest.

“It’s just a poem Suraya.” He’s still stroking her hair, “Relax,” he insists quietly, kissing her forehead again.

“Keep going then.” Her speech is almost drunkenly slurred from tiredness now. “I like your weird li’l poems. Don’t always understan’ ‘em. But I like ‘em.”

“I’ve given up on my brain. I’ve torn the cloth to shreds and thrown it away. If you’re not completely naked, wrap your beautiful robe of words around you…” He’s paused in his recitation again. He caresses her cheek with his knuckles, ever so lightly. As tired as she is, she finds she wants to fight sleep now. She wants to savour the tingles and goosebumps elicited from his words and his touch but she’s fighting a losing battle.

“…and sleep.” She feels herself drifting off as he finishes reciting his _weird little poem._  She’s just on the cusp of sleep, in that netherworld between wakefulness and dreams when, she’s not sure, but she could swear she heard him speak again.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Zavala recited Ode 314 by Rumi because he’s well into his Persian poetry.


End file.
